Foot Doctors Are Almost As Bad As Dentists
by Virgoleo23
Summary: Of trampolines and extension cords, of tattoos and skeletons, of podiatrists and lasers.  Sam injures her foot and goes to the foot...doctor dude person. Little does she know he already knows about her...from her 'archenemy'. Pssh, yeah right. T for lang.


**HOLY HOLY MOTHER OF CHIZ. iLost My Mind outranks iPWV in importance by like 1000000000% I can't wait until August!**

**BTW: First official posting as a Cabal member :D**

**In the POV of an OC and Sam. I'm switching it up. And yes, I will eventually post the last chapter to my other story and work on my other other story this summer. I have had barely enough time available to even write this oneshot. Hope you enjoy!  
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**Disclaimer: iCarly. It's Schneider's.**

**Dr.'s POV:**

From the moment Sam Puckett careened her way into my office cubicle, I knew that she was no ordinary patient.

First of all, she was screeching and howling like a spider monkey with its tail in a trap, flailing her arms backwards and forwards desperately to keep her balance as she hobbled in, dragging along a foot wrapped completely in Snoopy bedsheets. I managed to grab her arm and help her to a chair before she knocked a $2000 x-ray printer off of the desk ledge, but poor Davey Jones wasn't so lucky. The new intern's going to have lots of fun piecing the damned fragile skeleton back together.

Strangest of all, she had a giant tissue wad Scotch-taped to her forehead. It partially covered her eye and blocked her vision, which would explain why our skeletal model now rested in a jumbled pile of bones and wire on the floor.

There were six other patients waiting for me in the lobby area, but something told me that I should see to this one first. She didn't exactly seem the type of person to leave unsupervised for long. The intern would have killed me for it too.

I sat her down on the paper sheet on my examination table, and tried not to wince at the obnoxiously loud crinkling noise she made as she maneuvered her way on top of it and into a comfortable position.

"So," I began, "what brings you here today, Ms..."  
>"Puckett. Call me Sam," she bit back, seemingly annoyed that she had to drag herself to the podiatrist's office for her injured foot. Maybe she had better things to do.<p>

"Ok, Sam. I'm Doctor Richards, would you mind telling me exactly what happened?"  
>She mumbled something back that I didn't catch.<p>

"I fell."

_Well then, that settles that_.

"Alright, now before I look at your foot, I'd like to put some gauze on that scratch you got there, I wouldn't want it getting infected-"  
>"I'm fine," she clipped, glaring pointedly.<p>

I sighed, some people never learn. "Sam, you're at a podiatrist's office. A foot doctor. Who deals with people's _feet_in this room all day. Do you really want to leave that wound untreated and get infected by an airborne foot fungus?"

She glared harder. Great, she already hated me. But she didn't object, so I grabbed a gauze pad and some surgical tape and gently, slowly peeled the tissue wad off of her forehead. It wasn't too bad, just a flesh wound. She didn't even wince at the rubbing alcohol I applied, she was a tough chick. But without the scotch-taped obstruction covering her face, something about her was bugging me. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

* * *

><p><strong>Sam's POV:<strong>

It was ridiculous. I jumped from my rooftop onto the trampoline, and landed in a perfect backflip, only to break my foot tripping over a questionable extension cord.

Life sucks chiz.

So I sat on the exam table, not really wanting to be there, but not really having a choice if I wanted to, you know, _walk_ and stuff.

So then the foot dude started putting some stuff on the cut that I got on my forehead (thanks for leaving that camera there, Benson) and started looking at me all funny.

"What?" I blurted out.

"Sorry... but, have I...have we met before?"

"No. I don't spend my free time hanging out with foot people."

He rolled his eyes slightly and exhaled. "Sam, if I'm going to help you at all, you're going to need to improve your attitude."

"I'll improve _your_ attitude with a hammer."

"And leave with an unhealed foot."

I glared. He held my gaze. I scowled harder. He didn't budge.

I sighed, "Fine, I'm sorry. Now what were you saying?"

"Have I seen you somewhere? You look so familiar..."

"I do a webshow, iCarly, with my best friend."

"Never heard of it. But I swear I've seen you before..."

"I don't-"

"Aha! Now I remember, you were the girl whose face I pried off of that young man's arm!" His face broke out in a nubbish grin, like he'd just won a raffle and first prize was the cure for baldness. I was confused.

"What?...Oh, the tattoo! But you're a foot doctor."

He waved it off, "It was a temp job after I got laid off a few years ago."

"You removed tattoos?"

"Bread doesn't buy itself, and tons of people come to remove the tattoos that they were apparently too drunk or dumb to realize they didn't want in the first place. Sad as it is, the world will never run out of two things: drunkards and idiots. I had plenty to do."

And with that soapbox, he gestured for me to lay down on the back of the exam table as he propped my foot up with a Styrofoam block. I studied him for a beat or two, chewing the inside of my cheek until a blister bloomed and screamed for me to stop. Should I tell him?...

"I made him get it." The words were out faster than I meant them to be.

He cocked an eyebrow, "Oh, I see. And why would you make your friend get a tattoo of your face on his arm?" he asked, starting to unwrap Spencer's stolen Snoopy sheets from my swollen ankle.

I shrugged. "He lost a bet," I said, averting his gaze, feeling strangely embarrassed, and not wanting to make eye contact.

"What was the bet?"

As if I remember. "Some stupid computer thing. The idiot thought that he was smarter than me, so I, ah, make my mark on him." I gave a tiny smirk full of empty confidence.

He mmm-hmm'ed as he discarded the trampled sheets on the floor. He didn't even look like he was listening anymore.

But I guess he was, because he remarked, "Sound like you treat your friends very well, don't you?"

"The dork is not my friend."

"Oh, really? As I seem to recall, the second I set the laser on that young man's shoulder, the ink dissipated. Tricked him did you? Gave him temporary ink?"

Without any other sort of distraction, I counted the dots on the ceiling tiles as I replied absentmindedly.

"Well, you know. I wanted the nub to freak out a little, so he knew not to cross Mama again. I didn't want to do any permanent damage."

"Sounds less like making your mark and more like marking your territory." He considered the swelling on my foot and pulled down the x-ray machine from where it was suspended above us. What kind of doctor does he think he is? A foot dude or a psycho- a physi- a psychiatrist?

I was up to dot number fifty four.

"Well sorta, I guess. They're really the same thing."

"No, they're not." He grinned to himself, putting on the lead apron and snapping x-rays of my purplish foot.

I didn't have anything to say to that, so he continued.

"Was it because you felt guilty? The temporary ink?"

I paused for a moment...

I nodded.

"Yeah, well he was already going to get in huge trouble with his mom, I couldn't sentence him to that forever. But when she wasn't over, he just took off his jacket and kind of...wore it. Like he didn't care if our friends saw my face on his skin. It was actually sort of...nice... that he didn't cover it up or draw on it or anything. I don't know. It made me feel... I don't know, good or something like that. So yeah, I felt guilty."

"Ah," he squinted, studying a tiny S+F imprinted on the arch of my foot. "So you got one to match?"

Crap.

The room must have been ten thousand degrees, because I could feel the heat of a flush appearing on my forehead and staining my cheeks red.

I dipped my chin down once as avoided eye contact again, abandoning the ceiling dots after the one hundred thirty second. I found new distraction in snapping apart the plastic bones of the doctor's skeleton foot model. I didn't look up even as I heard his soft, husky chuckle. He examined my foot again.

I don't suppose that this is temporary ink?" he asked, looking up at me from beneath the rims of his glasses.

No, I slowly shook my head, it wasn't.

* * *

><p><strong>Dr.'s POV:<strong>

She didn't talk again after that, all the way up to the point where I sedated her so I could set the slightly displaced fifth metatarsal back into position. I realized I forgot to ask which color she wanted her cast to be, but I figured that she wasn't the type who really cared. So I gave her a purple cast, people rarely chose that color anyway, and the excess of purple bandages was starting to clutter up my supply closet.

She woke up just as the plaster finished drying, distractedly giving me her mother's insurance information and telephone number. I gave her a prescription for pain meds in return.

She told me I could keep the Snoopy sheets.

I rolled over a wheelchair next to the exam table, which she promptly declined for a pair of crutches.

She tried maneuvering her foot off of the elevation block, struggling against the anesthesia.

But I told her to wait as she struggled to sit up on the table. I left the room and quickly returned with a Sharpie marker in hand.

She followed me with her eyes as I lifted her foot off of the Styrofoam block and neatly scrawled S+F on the arch of her cast. She looked up at me inquisitively.

"You shouldn't have to cover it up either" I told her.

She granted me a grateful smile as she propped herself on her crutches and stumbled her way out of the room. Although she didn't forget to terrorize the intern and his skeleton on the way to the lobby. Poor Davey Jones.

I grinned.

I hope that young man she's friends with realizes that you don't always have to wear your heart on your sleeve to know that it's there.

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